


Patience

by Kiwikiwi591



Series: Colourblind [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, colourblind au, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Mycroft supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Sherlock had found his soulmate. A combination of years in waiting, his drug addiction, and general… Personality had made it seem rather unlikely, but then again, fate had always favoured him. Time and time again, whenever Sherlock seemed down on his luck, drifting into darker waters, something inexplicable always came to pluck him back into the light.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience

            Mycroft supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Sherlock had found his soulmate. A combination of years in waiting, his drug addiction, and general… Personality had made it seem rather unlikely, but then again, fate had always favoured him. Time and time again, whenever Sherlock seemed down on his luck, drifting into darker waters, something inexplicable always came to pluck him back into the light.

                It just so happened that this time, it came in the form of a man; John Watson.

                He still remembered their first meeting – Mycroft knew from the start that something was amiss when Sherlock made an unannounced visit back home. He rarely saw any family at all, and never had he scheduled a meeting without an immense amount of persuading to do so. He could still hear the quiet undertone of Sherlock’s voice on the phone – quiet, obviously hiding a waver; anticipation, anxiety, excitement. Something had happened, obviously, and he was oddly eager to share; and so with an arched brow, Mycroft agreed to meet with his brother and their parents.

                The next surprise came when Sherlock finally walked into the room where everyone was seated not by himself, but with someone at his side. Their parents had looked confused at first, but from the moment Mycroft saw them, he knew. Sherlock was different, now; he and this man moved in nearly perfect synchrony, each shifting of weight by one balanced by an opposite by the other. It was broadcasted in the way that they seemed to almost ache at the lack of contact, in the way that they looked at each other with an obvious extra layer of perception- they were perfectly matched, two pieces to a puzzle.

                “This,” Sherlock said, draping an arm over the shorter man’s shoulder, “is John Watson.”

                _John Watson._ Mycroft stored the name for future reference; he would search the various files of London civilians later.

                Meanwhile, their parents’ faces finally lit up with realisation.

                “Is he-?” Mother asked breathlessly.

                Sherlock gave one quick nod, and John smiled lightly beside him.

                Father leaned back in his chair, smiling widely as Mother stood to wrap them both in an embrace.

                “Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “I knew you’d find them eventually. Oh! Let me get a look at you!”

                She turned to John now, looking him up and down and smiling all the while. Father stood now, still keeping his distance; judging from afar. Mycroft had done the same, picking up little bits and pieces of the mysterious man who made up his brother’s other half; military experience, strong morals, vulnerable and wounded, fairly trustworthy. Eventually he found himself tuning out the conversation and world around him, sinking into the realisation of what had unfolded.

                Any given person within their lifetime has an approximate chance of 16.8% of finding their soulmate without actively seeking them out; he knew for a fact that Sherlock had not been trying to find his partner. Stacked alongside this, his brother’s unfortunate substance abuse had left his chances of ever recovering coloured sight down to 2.7%. And yet somehow, it had happened anyway. Against the odds, Sherlock had not only found his destined soulmate, but had also regained his sight just as he was supposed to. Mycroft knew for certain that he wasn’t putting on an act; his eyes weren’t filled with the same hollowness that all false couples’ held. No, they were bright, filled with the same curiosity and intensity that they’d shown when he was a child.

                Sherlock had without a doubt found the one he was meant to be with.

                Mycroft supposed that he should be happy for him, especially after the hardships he’d faced leading up to their meeting; few people deserved to find their partner as much as his brother had. He found, however, that he was beginning to be filled with an odd bitterness at the sight. Sherlock had always insisted that colour didn’t matter, that finding your soulmate was a tedious and unimportant pursuit; and yet, here he was, parading John around just as any of the countless other people that filled the world would have done. He felt almost cheated- they were different, he and his brother. They didn’t _need_ people like others did. And now...

                He shook it off. Ridiculous. Caring is not an advantage. The only thing Sherlock was doing was setting himself and his soulmate up for inevitable heartbreak, when either of their time ran out. That was the catch with soulmates, he supposed; a lifetime of happiness, but unimaginable sadness when it came time to let go. How terrible it must be to be the half left over.

                Mycroft was able to use these notions, along with the many others he’d built up over a lifetime of greyscale, to remind himself that having a soulmate didn’t matter. He didn’t _need_ anyone else. He wouldn’t be like the others, not even his brother; if he was to be alone, so be it.

                Everything changed three years later, when everyone was forced into a rather terrible situation caused by none other than Jim Moriarty. It became evident to both himself and Sherlock that as unfortunate as it may be, his brother was in serious danger. If they didn’t create a plan, and quickly, things would not end well.

                And so it was that Mycroft found himself standing beside his younger brother’s grave, holding an umbrella and generally trying to look miserable. He’d never been one to fake emotions well, not even as a child, but it would seem far too suspicious if he hadn’t attended the funeral service. He had genuinely felt a pang of empathy for John, however, looking empty and broken as he said some words at Sherlock’s gravesite. Mycroft had given him privacy, keeping out of hearing distance. Once he was done, he gave a quick nod, and walked through the small crowd out towards the main road.

                Mycroft already had several agents keeping a close eye on his condition.

                Once John left, Mycroft took a deep breath, and slowly paced towards the headstone. If he had to make a show of grieving, he might as well do as much as possible to be convincing. He stared down at the golden letters engraved on the dark stone, trying to look thoughtful.

                “It’s a damn shame,” came a voice from beside him. It was a bit familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I wish I would have known. That we all would’ve known.”

                “Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I was thinking the same myself. I am- was his brother; I can’t believe I didn’t find anything amiss.”

                “ I think John is taking it pretty hard,” he said. Mycroft still couldn’t quite tell who the voice belonged to. “He seems to think it’s his fault. That he could have somehow stopped it, if he’d just been more careful.”

                “He mustn’t blame himself,” Mycroft sighed. “None of us knew it was coming. I suppose, really, the only one who could have stopped it in the end was Sherlock.”

                “You’re probably right,” he replied. “It doesn’t stop me from feeling responsible, though. I was the one who made the call to get him arrested in the end.” He gave a long, wavered sigh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you all hated me at this point. I’m the closest to someone to blame as you’ve got, and I really can’t ever say sorry enough to fix it.”

                Mycroft peeked quickly to the side, hoping to catch something to identify the man; ah, there it was. An ID peeking just out of his pocket- Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Mycroft faltered a moment; _that’s_ why the voice sounded familiar. This was the man who had picked Sherlock up out of his drug habits when no one else could, offered him a way out. He’d never gotten a chance to thank him. He finally turned towards him.

                “You’re the one who got him away from drugs, Greg,” he replied. “I think I speak for the entirety of my family when I say that we couldn’t ever thank you enough for that.”

                He finally flicked his eyes up to meet the other man’s, but he’d suddenly forgotten what was supposed to come next. Something immense built up inside him, a sudden wave crushing in. He couldn’t quite describe it; he noticed that Greg’s eyes had suddenly blown wide, his mouth hanging slightly agape. As his peripheral vision began to come back into focus, his heart began to beat hard.

                It was _him._ Good _God, he’d actually found them._

He stumbled back a bit, suddenly finding it hard to keep his balance. He leaned on his umbrella for support, suddenly appreciative of the fact that everyone else had left about 20 minutes ago. The tone of the man’s skin, the dark green of his coat, the dull blue of the clouded sky, all of it came into blinding focus at once, nearly overwhelming him.

                Suddenly he rushed forward, pulling Mycroft into the first kiss he’d had since he was a teenager, when everyone put themselves into temporary little relationships just to get a glimpse at what discovering your soulmate might feel like- that, however, was absolutely nothing compared to what he felt now.

                All of the pent up emotion of the years gone past – loneliness, bitterness, sadness – all of it melted away, shoving itself into the slow slide of lips against lips, each of them desperately trying to get closer. It was amazing, all of it; the sudden completion, the return of colour to the world. Mycroft suddenly found it hard to imagine life before this moment, and nearly impossible to imagine it never happening.

                They finally pulled apart, Greg still holding to him tightly. He heard him laugh a couple times, and it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.

                “I was about to give up,” Greg said, settling his head into Mycroft’s shoulder. “If I’d known all I had to do was look you in the eyes, I would have done it years ago.”

                “As would I,” Mycroft replied, finding it oddly hard to speak. He could feel tears coming for the first time in years- he could hardly remember the last time he’d cried, and it was almost embarrassing for the tears to return.

               “I-“ he said, then paused. “I wish your brother could have seen. I’m sorry if that’s insensitive, I know you’re torn up, but I wish he could have known-“

                “Sherlock lives,” Mycroft whispered. It slipped out before he could quite stop it, and was suddenly he was aware of what he’d done. He glanced around quickly; still no one around.

                “What?” he said, pulling away enough to look Mycroft in the eyes again. He shivered; he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever get sick of seeing those eyes for the rest of his life. Greg’s expression softened, almost like he was talking to a child. “We all saw him- well, you know. He’s gone.”

                “It’s complicated,” Mycroft said. “We had... Plans. I can’t tell you here, but I assure you, he _is_ alive.”

                Greg looked slightly doubtful, but nodded. “Alright. I... I can buy that. If anyone could pull that off, it would be Sherlock.” He smiled. “And you have all the time in the world to explain it to me.”

                Mycroft smiled back, one of the first genuine smiles he’d had in years. He was completely blissful, almost unable to process anything around him; it was an odd but entirely welcome feeling.

                “It would appear I do. If you’ll come along with me, I’ll be happy to give you every detail,” he said. Greg nodded. Mycroft shifted his umbrella to the other hand, then stuck the other out towards him. He took it, and they walked out towards the main road.

                Mycroft could still feel warmth bubbling in his chest despite the grim scene they were leaving behind. One thought still crystallised in his mind, taking precedence above all others.

                Despite what he may have thought for the past couple decades, he did in fact need someone, more than anything in all the world.

                And he was his to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, by request, here's another addition to the Colourblind series. And if anyone is interested, I do have a couple more ideas to write fics off of; so, for now, the series is open again :)
> 
> This is my first time writing Mystrade, so I hope it wasn't too awful. Thank you for reading, hope you liked it! c:


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